


Les Réfugiés

by starstruck1986



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-10 23:54:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7013719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starstruck1986/pseuds/starstruck1986
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somehow, they've made it to the point where they can't live without each other.  Surviving threatens that bond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Les Réfugiés

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings / Content: Incest, Language, Hurt/Comfort, Another Fucking War AU, mentioned major character deaths, mentioned past canon pairings.

Charlie sat on the step, letting the damp slowly soak through the seat of his jeans. He was chain smoking his fourth cigarette in a row. He should be more careful, he knew – their supply wouldn't last forever and they'd been so hard fought for he shouldn't just waste them.  
  
It made him feel better, however, and Godric only knew he was due a little comfort.  
  
The rain teemed down in front of him, shooting off the gutter above his head and only just missing his knees and feet. It seemed to have been raining for weeks. They were lucky enough to have found a house to commandeer and to have been able to abandon the tent. It wasn't much, just a simple single storey cottage buried deep in brambles, as rotten as it was mouldy. Part of the porch he was sat on had collapsed completely with age. But it was a roof over their heads and, for the time being, that was enough.  
  
Shifting his bum slightly he felt an ache rising up into his spine. They couldn't light the fire because they couldn't control the smoke rising from the chimney and heating charms would do little given the amount of holes the house had in it. Magic was no longer a tool at their disposal anyway – not since the Trace had been reintroduced for all magical citizens to track whereabouts. It only applied to the borders of the country, however, and as soon as they escaped over a physical line, they would be safe. Apparating and illegal portkeys were off the cards since the official declaration of war; all travel by means of magic between the United Kingdom and the rest of the magical world had been blocked. He understood why, but it didn't make it any easier to sit there freezing his backside off.  
  
He sat there in two jumpers and a coat and had long since given up counting the layers of socks he was wearing. He reached the end of his cigarette and ground it out under his boot. Sitting watching the rain would do him no good – it was dragging up memories of Romania and of a past which was never coming back.  
  
Charlie kicked the front door shut behind him with a particularly vicious swing of his foot. The bang echoed through the house and he winced; he'd forgotten that he was trying to be quiet. Perhaps quiet should have been easier for him to achieve, given all the years he'd spent sneaking around dragons trying not to anger them. But now, when everything was so bloody silent and they needed to remain undetected, he felt like a bull in a china shop.  
  
 _Please, don't wake up. Don't wake up. Don't wake up._ The words chanted in his head on repeat.  
  
“Charlie?”  
“Fuck,” he swore, keeping his voice low.  
  
Rubbing his hands together to try and warm them, he stepped into the room they'd appropriated as a bedroom. On the floor was the manky double mattress they'd found lying on an old bedstead in a room at the front of the property – they'd dragged it through to another because it was marginally warmer there and didn't have as many draughts.  
  
“Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you,” he apologised.  
“You didn't. I've been up for a while.” Ron yawned and languidly stretched out. His feet stretched even further past the end of the mattress. “Well. I've been in and out.”  
“You're definitely not up,” Charlie teased gently, reaching out and prodding Ron with the tip of his boot.  
  
Ron didn't bother to respond but tucked his hands behind his head.  
  
“Lovely day,” Charlie commented. He dropped down onto the mattress with a groan.  
“At least we're inside now.”  
  
Charlie grunted his agreement as he eased himself to lie next to Ron. When he settled he let out a massive fart. Ron snorted. They were beyond the realms of being coy or discreet.  
  
After all, they were all the other had.  
  
***  
  
The rain was falling harder. The roof was leaking somewhere, Charlie could hear the steady dripping of water onto the floor. He knew he should get up and stick something underneath to prevent a flood. He was finally warm, though, and he didn't want to leave Ron.  
  
They'd fallen asleep late afternoon and woken stiff and frozen just before midnight. They'd shared a pitiful dinner with the dregs of their food supplies; the meal barely touched the sides. They were both used to being hungry. Neither of them were particularly pleasant when starving. Charlie was glad it was Ron that he was stranded with – with one of his brothers who understood him, who was so like him that most of the time he didn't even have to speak.  
  
He'd thought the only bond he had like that was with Bill. He had been there to see that bond brutally severed in two with his older brother's death.  
  
Just thinking about it made his throat thicken.  
  
Sniffing to himself, Charlie peered over Ron's shoulder to check that he was still asleep. He pulled him closer to his chest and tightened his grip. Ron smelt ripe – _when did either of us last wash?_ \- but somehow he still smelt of himself. Charlie pressed his face into his brother's hair and inhaled more deeply. He couldn't come to terms with the fact that it was a smell which brought him the deepest comfort he could imagine at moments like those. That he had come to draw comfort from someone who was of his own blood, immediate family.  
  
Yet he never said no. When Ron crawled into his arms and kissed him, Charlie had never once pushed him away. Not even the first time, when they were freshly dislodged from their lives and they were not as desperate as they now were. He had lain there and kissed back and everything that had happened since had been fully consensual and desired.  
  
Ron was the only person he had left in the entire world. He knew there must be plenty like them, but he doubted that those who were family had ended up sleeping together – using each other for physical and emotional comfort in the most carnal of ways.  
  
“Charlie, for fuck's sake go to sleep,” Ron muttered over his shoulder. “You're giving me the creeps.”  
“Sorry.” Charlie closed his eyes and said nothing.  
“What are you thinking about?”  
“Us.”  
  
Ron seemed to stop breathing. Charlie wondered if he, too, was frightened that it might suddenly just stop – that they might no longer want to share such closeness.  
  
“Just how fucked up it is,” he said eventually. “Wondering if there's something wrong with us for doing this.”  
  
Letting out a sigh at last, Ron turned in Charlie's arms to face him. He was so changed from before the war. His hair was long and half-matted and he sported as much of a beard that he could ever grow. It made him look quite feral.  
  
 _He looks different, and he is different. So am I. Neither of us will ever be the same again._  
  
“When we get to France...” Ron nervously chewed on his bottom lip. “We'll have to be more careful. Our faces will be recognised and we won't be able to carry on as we have been.”  
“I know that.” Charlie had been trying not to think about it.  
“So... maybe it's better if we do put a stop to it. Now. Give ourselves time to... to adjust...”  
  
Instantly, Charlie knew that he hated that idea and that he would never be able to part himself from Ron. As if there was something invisible connecting them which couldn't be broken. He would be beside himself.  
  
“I know.” Ron made a face. “That's how I feel about it too.”  
“Well, then why don't we skip France?”  
“And go where instead?”  
“Further afield. There has to be somewhere on this planet that we can hide, where we won't be recognised as Weasleys and fugitives. We could just... slip into normal life in that place, and one of us could use glamours. They'd never have to know we were brothers.”  
  
He could hear the desperation rising in his voice as he continued talking. Ron was already shaking his head.  
  
“There'll always be someone who knows. Do you want to live the rest of your life in fear?”  
  
Charlie laughed in his face. “What life, Ron? We can get out of the country now or later, but it doesn't stop the reality that sooner or later they'll find more power – because they always find more – and this won't just be a war for the UK any more. It'll spread. It's a plague and it will spread far and wide and we'll just end up running again.”  
“But surely a few months of peace is preferable to never being able to breathe easy ever again?” Ron pleaded. “Come on, Charlie. The plan has always been to get to France and join with anyone we can find there.”  
“I don't want to go if it means this has to stop.” Charlie shook him for emphasis. “And I know that's stupid, and fucked up, but it's how I fucking feel.”  
  
Ron stared at him for a moment before closing his eyes.  
  
Charlie kissed him for a lack of any other ideas. Ron kissed him back with a gentle mouth and brought one hand up to sink into Charlie's hair.  
  
The rain pounded outside. The dripping from the roof increased. Charlie gasped as Ron's other hand slipped past the waistband of his jeans.  
  
***  
“We don't have Muggle passports,” Charlie said for what felt like the millionth time.  
  
They'd been hashing out the same argument for days. Ron felt the time was right to press south to the coast and to somehow blag their way onto a boat to France. He let out a frustrated moan and dragged his fingers through his hair.  
  
“I know we don't, but we could do it, Charlie. Somehow. Find someone with a private boat... or... I don't know, get to Jersey or Guernsey and then... _I don't know_.”  
“I don't want to run any more, Ron.”  
“What's the alternative? Waiting here to die? Like everyone else?”  
“Maybe, yeah. Maybe that's what's meant to be, Ron.”  
“No! I won't fucking wait here like a sitting duck and I sure as fuck am not going to watch you die too. You're... you're...”  
  
He lost his nerve and started to pace up and down in the dilapidated kitchen.  
  
The rain had eased to a drizzle and Charlie realised he'd forgotten what life sounded like without a backdrop of unrelenting water.  
  
“I can't,” Ron said finally. “I'm not giving up. If you won't come with me... then I'll go alone.”  
“You'd leave me behind?”  
“No.” Ron laughed.  
“What's funny?”  
“That you seriously think you'd stay behind if I went. That you wouldn't follow me.”  
  
Charlie shook his head. “You're a twat, you know that?”  
  
Ron shrugged. “Why bullshit? I thought we were long past lying to one another.”  
“I s'pose you're right.”  
  
He wandered over to Ron and wrapped his arms around him from behind. He kissed his hair. “But nothing changes the fact we don't have passports, we don't have the money to get fake ones or to pay anyone stupid enough to take us across the channel.”  
“We've made it this far. We should at least get down there. We've been moving around to throw them off for months. It's time to act. We have to try.”  
  
Charlie held on tighter and hid his face in Ron's neck. He breathed in, hoping that the smell would comfort him.  
  
The thought of moving on made him feel sick. The house might be falling down around their ears but it was suddenly their home, and he felt safer there than he had anywhere else thus far.  
  
As if to spite him, there was a loud crash from the living room – they both leapt out of their skin and tore through the house.  
  
Their mattress was coated in damp plaster and rotting wood where the leak in the ceiling had caused it to collapse.  
  
“Fuck it.” Charlie sighed. “I suppose that's a sign?”  
“Could be. You want to take it as one?”  
  
Charlie stared at the mattress.  
  
“Don't see that we've got much choice. Let's pack up. Find that fucking tent.”  
  
***  
  
“This is insane,” Charlie hissed. He tried to stop his fingers from shaking.  
  
Somehow, miraculously, by bumming around the ferry port in Dover for long enough they'd noticed the customs officials check the back of a lorry and then accidentally leave the doors ajar. They'd quickly taken advantage and collectively held their breath as the driver secured the back of the truck and drove onto the ferry. The boat was in motion, the engines thrumming through the metal beneath them as they stayed huddled in a corner.  
  
Ron was sitting in between Charlie's legs, leaning back against him in silence. Despite the cool air they were both sweating.  
  
“When we get to France,” Charlie whispered, “The first thing we're doing is finding somewhere to have a long hot bath each.”  
“And something to eat that hasn't been dehydrated first. And new clothes.”  
“When did you start shitting money?” Charlie laughed.  
“I've been thinking about that.” Ron reached up and covered Charlie's hands with his own. “When we hit French jurisdiction, we can use magic again, yeah?”  
“Well... in theory, yeah. But we've been without for months now. Neither of us are going to be producing anything great in the near future.”  
  
Ron hummed in agreement before continuing. “I just... I thought maybe we could go to...”  
“Where?” Charlie frowned as he waited for Ron to answer, unsure of why he was so hesitant.  
“The reserve. Romania.”  
  
He wasn't aware of the fact that he'd stiffened, but he must have because his back, neck and shoulders started to ache.  
  
Charlie had worked very hard to put his past behind him. He had fought tooth and nail to stop the overwhelming grief for his past life from consuming him. To walk back into it would be to undo all of that work.  
  
“Do you think you might still have friends there?” Ron asked softly. “Friends that would put us up?”  
“I'd imagine there would be some faces I recognised, but I can't guarantee that they'd take us in.”  
“Not even if you offered to work?”  
“I can't even guarantee that there _is_ any work.”  
“There'll always be dragons, Charlie. There'll always be people like you, who want to care for them properly, and idiots who try and raise them in their back gardens for kicks.”  
  
Charlie had to concede that he was right. He slumped back and tried to concentrate on what Ron was suggesting. It was a good plan. A plan which would see them safe and protected. The reserve was hard to reach physically without magic and should anyone come after them, there would be enough brawn around to help them have a fighting chance at surviving. If anyone even came after them. Their last run-in with anyone magical had been a month and a half ago. They'd worked hard to make their trail go cold.  
  
And there they were, hiding in the bowels of a ferry, heading for France.  
  
Suddenly Ron seized, he sat deadly still until his body broke out in shivers and exhaled.  
  
“Did you feel that?” he whispered.  
“Feel what?” Charlie frowned at his back.  
“The trace is gone. The ship must have passed the border into French waters.”  
“I didn't get anything,” Charlie said, uncertainty consuming him as Ron jumped to his feet and shook out his hands. “What are you going to do?”  
  
Ron looked happier than Charlie had seen him in months. He wore a slightly wry smile as he fingered his wand.  
  
“Careful,” Charlie whispered. “Remember we're in the guts of a boat and you haven't practiced magic in a long time.”  
“I know,” Ron said softly. “Don't nag.” He made a face. “Lumos.”  
  
The dark lorry filled with light and Charlie shielded his eyes. Everything seemed to have been dark for weeks. He held his breath as he listened for the sounds of imminent apparition cracks, shouts, threats, curses.  
  
But all there was in his ears was the steady thrum of the boat chugging beneath them.  
  
In the eerie white light, Ron's face split into a wide grin.  
  
“We're free, Charlie. We're free.”  
  
***  
  
Freedom didn't exactly go as planned, however. Sitting in a cold interview room in the French Ministry wasn't what he would have chosen for his first hours as a free man. As far as he could tell with his minimal French – they weren't in trouble, the French just wanted information on the state of matters inside the UK. It put his teeth on edge that they'd been separated though. He'd last seen Ron two hours before. He hoped his brother had been fed and watered as he had. And that his room was warmer, because once the cold got into Ron's bones, he shook so hard that his teeth rattled.  
  
Charlie knew that following too many nights together in their decrepit tent. He knew his brother so intimately – more intimately, he assumed, than anyone before him bar Ron's wife.  
  
He remembered the night they crossed the line vividly. They'd been on the run for a month. Neither of them could sleep because they were too terrified, too torn up with grief for those that had left them.  
  
He remembered thanking Merlin that Ron hadn't had to see Hermione's death like he had witnessed Bill's, and their parents. But on the other side of that relief, Ron blamed himself for her death because he wasn't there.  
  
It had been a still night. Not like some they'd endured with the wind raging and the rain threatening to drown them. They'd laid side-by-side, wide awake, not speaking for hours. Eventually Ron had turned towards him and Charlie saw that his face was wet with tears. Ron hadn't made even a squeak but must have been silently crying for some time. He'd caved at that. He couldn't not touch him, desperate to provide comfort. Somewhere along the way, with Ron cuddled tightly in his arms, he had begun to cry too.  
  
When Ron realised he cried harder and started whispering things – deep, painful words which made him cry so hard that his body shook. Charlie just listened but when Ron chose to hide his face in his front, he pulled him close again and kissed the top of his hair. It wasn't a romantic moment, nor was it in anyway lecherous. It was simply the only way he could convey the depth of what he felt for Ron in that moment – and show him just how much he wished that he could fix everything.  
  
But nothing could be fixed, and when those kisses that he rained down on Ron's head grew closer to his lips, neither of them could put a stop to it. Soon they were rutting against one another with the pent-up anger and pain. It was the first time they'd forgotten to be quiet.  
  
It was most certainly a comfort thing – if it wasn't the first time, it certainly became so.  
  
He jumped as the door to the interview room swung open and, even though they'd spent the last months in each other's pockets, he was incredibly glad to see Ron's lanky bulk in the doorway.  
  
Charlie couldn't help himself. He jumped to his feet and grabbed Ron in an embrace, making fists in the back of his jacket.  
  
“Are you okay?” he whispered.  
“Yeah, I'm fine.”  
  
Ron spoke clearly and confidently. Charlie tried to read his expression but found it empty.  
  
“Please, have a seat.” The wizard that Charlie had deduced to be in charge gestured him back into the seat he'd vacated and magicked another two out of thin air for Ron and his assistant. “We thank you greatly for your cooperation, it has been quite some time since we saw anyone come out of the country.”  
“Come out of the country alive, you mean,” Ron corrected shrewdly.  
  
The wizard gave them both a weary smile. “This is true. It's gone on so long.”  
“Tell us about it,” Charlie muttered, and folded his arms over his chest.  
“Of course, we welcome you into our country.”  
“We don't plan to stay,” Ron explained. “We were hoping to get as far away as possible. I'm sure you can understand that?”  
“I can. Though I cannot hide my disappointment that you do not plan to stay and help us fight.”  
“Is there still a fight?” Charlie asked.  
  
The Frenchman laughed and shook his head. “I can see why you would wonder that, Mr Weasley. You have been a fugitive for too long, and now you are a refugee.”  
“We're not seeking refuge from France,” Ron repeated politely. “With your permission we'll leave immediately.”  
“And where might you be headed?”  
  
Charlie opened his mouth but Ron's hand shot out to halt him mid-speech.  
  
“I hope that you can understand, given how long we've been on our own, that we don't want to divulge that at this time?”  
  
His brother, the Auror. It had been a long time since Charlie had seen him.  
  
“I completely understand. If I was in your place I would feel the same.”  
“But?” Ron led on.  
  
The man sighed again and sat back in his chair. “My superiors feel that you would be of use to us. They would prefer if you remained in our care.”  
“Under your watch,” Ron corrected.  
“We would of course furnish you with accommodation, money, clothes – everything you need and have not had for quite some time, I would guess, looking at you.”  
“Under what terms?” Charlie asked.  
“That we can call on you for advice if need be, or perhaps if you would work actively with our government, with the United Nations. We are all anxious to put an end to this war and the more help we have the closer we will get.”  
“And if we just want to go to the ends of the earth and live it out quietly? If we don't _care_ any more?”  
  
Ron looked between them both. “Charlie, calm down.”  
“We finally get out of that hell and they want to tie us down again? This isn't what we talked about, Ron!”  
“I know it isn't. But we didn't factor in that anyone might want our help to put an end to it all.”  
“Do we really care?” Charlie laughed. “Godric, Ron. Everyone we love is dead. Everyone that mattered to us is gone. What is there to fight for? Don't give me some bullshit about justice and doing what's right.”  
  
He knew what was coming because he saw it on Ron's face before his mouth even opened.  
  
“I care, Charlie. Once upon a time it was my profession to protect people. For all we know, there are others out there like us – living in misery. We're in a position to help them from here or at least to help the people who can.”  
  
Charlie rubbed his forefinger over his lips and shook his head. When he met Ron's eyes he hoped he was conveying what he couldn't stay out loud: _If we stay, how can we be together properly?_  
  
“Look. You are clearly both very tired. Why don't you take the rest of the day, and tonight, to think on it? We'll put you up somewhere nice, you can both enjoy... ah... some of the comforts you have been without, and we can talk again tomorrow?”  
“Thank you, I think that would be best.” Ron got to his feet. Only then did Charlie see how filthy his brother really was.  
  
The thought of a bath was extremely appealing.  
  
“My secretary will arrange everything. Please, step this way.”  
  
The door was pulled open and they were waved out. Charlie dared to let out a tiny sigh of relief.  
  
***  
  
It had been a long time since he'd sat in a bath full of hot water. He'd run it as hot as he could stand and was scrubbing every inch of himself to try and get rid of the grime.  
  
They had been extremely well-fed and he had let Ron wash first. Whilst he'd smiled at the appreciative groans from the bathroom he'd stood at the window and looked out at Paris. He'd been before but there was something about freedom which made it look better.  
  
He couldn't believe they were really there. Charlie was afraid to go to asleep in case it turned out to be a really fucking cruel dream.  
  
“Good, isn't it?” Ron asked happily, drifting into the bathroom and plopping down on the closed toilet seat. “I had no idea how gross I felt until I was in there.”  
“Never seen the water this grey,” Charlie mumbled. “And I'm no stranger to a bit of dirt.”  
  
He sank down until only his head was sticking out of the water. It was beautiful.  
  
“First time I've seen you without your mad hair for a while.” Ron smiled at him. “You look weird without.”  
“And you look weird having had a shave.”  
“I feel it. Like a kid again.” He laughed.  
  
“What are we going to do Ron?” Charlie closed his eyes and exhaled.  
“I don't know,” his brother admitted glumly.  
“Well, what do you _want_ to do, then?”  
  
There was a moment's hesitation and then, “I want to stay.”  
  
Charlie was glad that he had the bathwater to duck under. Suddenly, despite everything they'd shared, he didn't want Ron to see him cry – not then, not there, not after they'd escaped. He stayed down as long as he dared, until his lungs were burning in protest. When he broke the surface panting, he realised he was alone again.  
  
Coughing slightly, he put a hand on either side of the bath and heaved himself up. The falling water made a racket and a chill crept over his damp skin. Quickly finding a towel and scrubbing himself all over with it, Charlie pulled his first clean pants in weeks off the radiator where he'd left them to warm. The French Ministry had been true to their word – they'd put them up in the fancy hotel and ten minutes after their arrival they'd been met with suitcases of fresh clothing and other essentials. Worming his way into the form-fitting snugness, Charlie breathed a sigh of relief. He threw a t-shirt over his head and smoothed it down over his body – a body which had once been cared for and worked on during long sessions in the Reserve gymnasium, but had fallen to waste with poor nutrition and being confined to whatever space they could find for shelter.  
  
Even with that, he was still stocky and broad in the torso. His tattoos were still the same vivid colours they had been when first inked into his skin. His hair was still as batshit mad as it always had been.  
  
 _Mum would have a fit._  
  
Even though he knew she was dead and thought he'd processed his grief, when his mind caught him unaware with memories it did so viscerally, making his stomach lurch and his heart pound.  
  
Eventually he stepped out into the main hotel suite, chuckling to himself as he decided to leave the light on for decadence's sake. They'd spent a lot of time in the dark.  
  
Ron was nowhere to be seen, so Charlie turned into the bedroom. The hotel had provided them with two double beds, separated by bedside tables and a plant. They'd offered them both separate suites but, when it boiled down to it, the thought of spending their first night of freedom alone was something neither of them could face.  
  
Ron was stretched out on the bed nearest the window, which he had opened. The curtains were fluttering in the same breeze which had caught Charlie in the bathroom. His eyes were unfocused.  
  
It really was very odd to see him without his beard. He looked so young without it.  
  
“Will you help me cut my hair in the morning?” He asked suddenly, swinging his gaze round to look at Charlie in his pants. “I've tried getting through the mats but it's not happening, so I'll just chop it off.”  
“Not too short though?” Charlie implored, sitting down gingerly on the edge of the bed.  
“As short as it needs to be.” Ron shrugged. “I don't care to be honest.”  
  
Ron said nothing further and Charlie exhaled.  
  
“This feels weird,” he muttered finally. “Being clean. Being warm. This.” He stroked his hand over the luxurious bedding, which would have been special without having spent months in grotty surroundings. “And...” he hesitated, reaching his fingers out to brush them against the copper hairs on Ron's forearm. “Seeing you here. I guess I just made peace in my head that we were together because everything was so different, we had no other comfort.”  
“And now you're back in the land of the living with a fancy bed and a roof without holes in, you don't want me any more?”  
  
Charlie was staggered to hear very real fear in Ron's tone as he spoke. He immediately opened his mouth to respond but Ron carried on.  
  
“After everything we've been through, one bath and that's it?”  
“Don't be stupid,” he muttered, embarrassed. “Of course I still want you.”  
  
To make his point he turned and laid down on the bed, pulling Ron close to his chest and putting his arms around him. It was a protective move. He kissed Ron's clean hair and couldn't help a little smile.  
  
“If we stay...” Ron was murmuring into his throat, which made it hard to hear. “Then this becomes much more problematic.”  
“It doesn't have to.” Charlie knew he was mainly trying to convince himself.  
  
Ron let out a thoroughly fed up sigh and broke out of Charlie's hold to roll onto his back. He scrubbed his face with his fingers and eventually sat up.  
  
“D'you know what I want?” he asked morosely.  
“What?”  
“I want to get drunk. Can you remember the last time we were able to get drunk?”  
“Fuck, no.”  
“Well. Let's sort that out, for starters.”  
  
He hopped off the bed with energy which surprised Charlie. He felt bone tired. Perhaps it was the eight years between them which saw him craving sleep where Ron was not. Neither of them were teenagers any more – neither of them were even twenty-somethings.  
  
“Champagne.” Ron had the room service menu open in his hands.  
“How're we going to aff-”  
“The hotel is paid for,” Ron said firmly. “And fuck knows we're due a celebration, and I don't think the Ministry is going to argue. Especially not if we agree to help them.”  
“Are we?” Charlie sat up. “Going to help them?”  
  
The champagne magically popped out of thin air, nestled in ice. Two glasses appeared on the table nearby along with a massive bowl of strawberries and a pot of dipping chocolate.  
  
“That looks _immense._ ” Charlie eased himself off the mattress and crossed the room. He selected a strawberry and sank it into the chocolate. When he bit into it he moaned with pleasure. “So fucking good.”  
  
Ron seized the neck of the champagne bottle and popped the cork out. Charlie jumped, his breath catching in his throat.  
  
“Sorry.” Ron grimaced. “Should have thought about that.”  
  
He slopped some fizz into both glasses and then buried the bottle back in the ice bucket. He handed Charlie his glass and then hesitated with his mouth open.  
  
“To peace,” Charlie said quietly. “To fucking finding some.”  
“Yup.”  
  
They clinked glasses and drank. They both drained them of all liquid and made the same satisfied sound when they'd finished. Ron poured two more and they repeated the process all over again.  
  
They carried on until the bottle was empty. Charlie was old enough to recognise that downing an entire bottle between them after over a year of being teetotal was probably not the smartest idea they'd ever had. It tasted good, though, and it sent some energy crackling back into his veins.  
  
He started on the strawberries again and didn't bother to stop the chocolate as it coated his lips.  
  
“Save some for me,” Ron groused, elbowing him in the ribs.”  
“Shut your face and order another bottle of champagne. Ooh, and some chips.”  
  
Ron looked at him quizzically but didn't comment, he just did as he was told.  
  
“This one, we're going to enjoy,” Charlie promised.  
  
He reached up and pressed a strawberry to Ron's lips. His pulse kicked up a notch when Ron allowed himself to be fed.  
  
Throat dry, Charlie swallowed, suddenly nervous. This wasn't a quick fumble to keep warm in a tent in the middle of nowhere. It wasn't even huddling together for warmth in a house falling down about their ears.  
  
It was two men, together, in an upmarket hotel, who didn't have to share a bed or even a room. For the first time ever, it really felt like a _choice_ to be heading down that route with his brother.  
  
Perhaps it was the Champagne, but he felt remarkably calm.  
  
“I want you,” he blurted  
  
Ron's face relaxed into a beautiful smile. “I know. And it's all right. You can have me.”


End file.
